


a family of trees (to be loved)

by iskra (kiira)



Category: Carmilla (Web Series)
Genre: F/F, happiness & winter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-30
Updated: 2014-12-30
Packaged: 2018-03-04 09:28:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,372
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3062678
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kiira/pseuds/iskra
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>she’s reading when you wake up again, and there’s gray, muted light struggling through the window (it makes laura look so incredibly beautiful) (everything, you think, makes laura look so incredibly beautiful).</p>
            </blockquote>





	a family of trees (to be loved)

Her alarm goes off, like always, at 7:05 and you make a tiny groaning noise and bury your face further into her shoulder. And, (like always) she kisses your hair and pushes you off gently, muttering things like “We aren’t all nocturnal, Carm,” and “I actually need to attend class to do well,” and once you managed to keep her with you, curled in your soft quilt (in her softer arms), and you’ve made it your goal all semester to repeat that wonderful stillness.

But this morning, like all mornings, she tumbles out of bed and still half-asleep, checks her email on her computer, trying to button up her shirt (and mostly failing).

You’ve mostly fallen back asleep when you feel her nudge you over, and she tucks herself back in next to you, letting you curl back up into her side.

“What’s happening?” You mumble, squinting at her and she laughs softly, kissing your hair.

“Go back to sleep, Carm. It snowed like, four feet or something last night and they decided to cancel classes,” and you make a happy humming noise and press yourself closer into Laura’s warmth.

/

She’s reading when you wake up again, and there’s gray, muted light struggling through the window (it makes Laura look so incredibly beautiful) (everything, you think, makes Laura look so incredibly beautiful). You watch her for a couple seconds, the way her eyelashes curl and how she tries not to smile when she realizes you’re watching you.

“Took you long enough to get up, sleeping beauty,” and you press your face into her hip and groan, because it’s still technically the middle of the night to you, so you tell her so. She hops out of bed and starts to finish getting dressed (she’s wearing only a button down shirt from earlier; you resist the urge to pull her back to bed and kiss her senseless.)

“It’s 10:32,” she singsongs, and tosses one of her sweaters and a pair of your (less ripped) jeans at you, and still complaining about her sleeping habits, you tug them on.

(Her pretty, pretty smile is worth is; you wonder for the hundredth time how in all your thousands of horrors you managed to find Laura Hollis).

Once you get outside, Laura immediately forgets her mission of finding food and gets distracted by basically everything, there’s something akin to wonder in her eyes. You can feel it sharp and wonderful in your lungs (so you take three separate photos with Laura and then of the snow on the English building, and then one of Laura by herself, smiling like she’s filled with sunshine).

It takes thirty minutes to walk to the dining hall, and Laura’s freezing cold by the time you do, but you feel eighteen in your bones.

/

It’s not really breakfast, you suppose, but Laura still manages to get pancakes and practically drenches them in syrup.

“You’re going to kill yourself like that cutie,” and you glare at the syrup like it personally offended you.

“I know,” and she takes a huge bite of it and smiles at you, sticky sweet and positively disgusting, “but it’s just so _good_.”

You roll your eyes at her and sip at your coffee. “You’re vile, Laura Hollis.”

She brushes her hand against yours (you stiffen slightly, but Laura’s safe, she’s safe, she’s safe and she doesn’t even try to hold your hand, not here with the clattering, and the boy sitting right next to you, and the endless, endless eyes), “You like it though,” she grins and you, of course, do.

/

The trip back to your dorm takes an embarrassingly short amount of time (Laura whispers what _exactly_ she’d like to do with the sweater you’re wearing, and you practically slip on ice trying keep up with her; she laughs and laughs and laughs and you are quite achingly in love.)

As soon as the door shuts behind her, she’s kissing you, and pushing you back towards the bed. You fall onto it with a squeak and she starts to giggle again, burying her face into your neck as you press kisses to her jaw, her hair, any part of her that you can reach. She takes a few careful breaths and then she’s kissing you again, soft and slow and sweet and (you could practically do this forever, kiss Laura like she’s something permanent; feel the way she gasps into your mouth, breathy and warm and you would cry if you weren’t so goddamn happy.)

Her shirt is unbuttoned and hanging off her shoulders, and she slips her hands under your sweater, curling her fingers into your sides. You let her take it off, but you take her hands away from your bra’s clasp and shake your head quickly at her. Pressing a kiss to your cheek, she moves her hands to your waist before pulling away to look at you carefully.

“You okay?” She whispers, and you nod, leaning into her touch. “You sure? Do you want your sweater back? Cause I’m totally cool with this being a completely dressed thing.”

“Yeah,” you answer, “Yeah, I’m good, just… just keep it like this,” and she nods, smiling before leaning in to kiss you again and again and again and you wish you could take this happiness and keep it somewhere safe and quiet forever.

/

If it were up to you, you would never leave the warmth of your bed, of Laura’s occasional remark about whatever novel she’s reading, of her giggling at whatever she’s got on her computer, of rereading _La mythe de Sisyphe_ for the three hundredth time, but of _course_ it’s not up to you.

“Come on!” Laura’s holding up at least four sweaters and you want to remind her that you’re a vampire, for fuck’s sake, “We’re going outside.”

You slouch over to her and grab what looks like the thinnest sweater and throw it on over the t-shirt you changed into after kissing Laura for what felt like hours on your bed.

“’kay cutie, let’s go,” and she pouts at you, shoving the remaining three sweaters at you, along with a beanie and a huge dark red scarf. You’re not sure if she’s serious yet.

“You’re gonna freeze to death out there,” and she’s pulling on a huge puffy winter coat and yeah. She’s serious.

“I’m already dead, Laur,” you grumble as you put on one more of the sweaters, the hat and the scarf and then flash your best vampire face at her. “I’m done.”

She gives you a huge smile and then pulls you out through the door with one mittened hand (and of course she wears mittens; you fight a smile just thinking about it).

/

Everything’s still almost untouched, even now as it’s getting dark, and the snow makes everything soft and white, muffles the echoing screams of this place and softens the jagged edges. The trees’ limbs are all covered in a neat line of snow, like sleeves, graceful lines against the setting sun. You take a deep breath (you are with Laura, the air is cold and crisp and real; you somehow are not in a coffin) and it comes out warm.

It starts snowing again, and Laura’s started to shiver a little, so you unwrap the absurdly large scarf from around your neck and pile it around hers, shaking your head at her.

“You wanna head back, Laur?”

She’s staring at you, and when you raise your eyebrow at her, she blushes at little, burying her nose into the scarf.

“The snowflakes look really pretty in your hair,” she mumbles into it, maybe hoping you won’t catch all the words, but super hearing isn’t just good for hunting and you bite your lip to keep from smiling.

You link your arm with hers (Laura is lovely and you do not flinch at her love) and brush a quick kiss to her cheek (the night is soft and dark; it does not have eyes).

She smiles; happiness curls in your chest and the snow dusts her shoulders like falling stars, like something breathless holy.

The snow covers your hands and arms and neck and for these still, sweet moments, you are wonderfully, wonderfully safe.


End file.
